


drunk in love

by spookyfoot



Series: i know who i want to take me home [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Getting Together, HAPPY BIRTHDAY ESSA, I Love Everyone In This Bar, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Pole Dancing, Social Media, the ages are a mess, they're old enough to work at a bar, this has been in my drafts since early may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11214093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: “You’re an idiot,” Yuri doesn't bother looking up from counting his tips.“I prefer to think of myself as an innovative business man—we’re the only bar in the city who does this.”“That’s because this isn’t how happy hour works, Victor!”“Well, It's the happiest hour ofmyday.”“You giving him hundreds of dollars of free drinks every week isn't a sustainable business model. I don’t need an MBA to figure that out.”“He pays his tab in pole dancing, Yuri,” Victor sniffs, busying himself by pretending to re-arrange the glasses on the shelf behind them.__________________Victor runs a bar, Yuuri is his favorite customer.





	drunk in love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DefiantDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefiantDreams/gifts).



> this has been in my drafts folder 75% completed since may 2nd. yikes.
> 
> this was based off a story a friend told me about a bar she used to go to in bushwick, where at the end of the night the bartender would charge her and her friends an absurdly low tab for the amount they drank. ofc my brain was like....victor would do that. and thus....this. 
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ESSA!!!!! <33333333

Victor checks his watch, flicks his eyes back to the door, back to his watch, and then back to the door again. Where is he?

It's a Saturday. Yuuri is always at _Aria_ by 10:30pm on Saturdays, and that's when he's running late. It's 11pm. Maybe Victor forgot daylight savings time? No. It's the middle of summer.

"This is pathetic.”

Victor knows Yuri's right, but he's never been one to admit defeat. It's his best—and worst— quality.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Victor sniffs, pulling out a pile of receipts from six months ago. Yakov will be pulling what’s left of his hair out come tax season.

“Face it, Katsudon isn’t coming tonight,” Yuri says.

“How dare you! I am _offended_. I mean, I’m friends with other customers. This is an outrage—pure character assassination.” Victor is not offended at all.

“You’re so transparent. Your hair might as well be see through instead of gray.”

Ouch. “It’s _silver_ , Yura.” They’ve had this discussion before, sandwiched between the proper way to stir a martini, and a tutorial on folding napkin swans.

Yuri opens his mouth to say something else (fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving, red flush flooding his cheeks—Victor can tell he’s gearing up for a rant), but Victor’s spared the verbal flagellation when Otabek, Yuri’s boyfriend and favorite customer, waves him over from the other end of the bar.

Victor continues check his watch every five minutes. The Saturday night rush has never moved so slowly.

For the first time in months, Victor stays until closing. He stacks chairs on the empty tables, refills the salt, pepper and sugar, and notes which bathroom wall obscenities he has to paint over and which ones can stay (“they add character, Yuri!”); Yuri frowns at him the whole time. He ignores him— he has A System.

Yuuri never comes.

_________________

_Two months earlier_

The first time Victor sees Yuuri poledance is at the "Wine and Dine and Wine Some More" party.

As a guest judge at _Shaken Not Stirred_ —the United States’ premium Mixology competition— he’s spent the whole day plastered to an uncomfortable plastic chair. The judge next to him smelled like curry and fried chicken. Victor’s not even sure they serve those at the booths in the convention hall.

One of the six finalists—a man so beautiful Victor didn’t even notice he’d added salt instead of simple syrup to his whiskey sour—is utterly plastered. And apparently insistent on turning a staid cocktail mixer into a dance party. Victor is utterly delighted.

“Chris, look at him,” Victor says, as though anyone could tear their eyes away from the flushed vision that is Yuuri Katsuki. He’s a sweating, spinning, tie-crowned miracle. “Those thighs should be registered as a lethal weapon.”

Victor’s cheeks acquire a matching flush when Yuuri drags him onto the floor and presses their bodies together. He can’t stop smiling.

The flush doesn’t leave his cheeks even when he’s alone in his hotel room, Yuuri’s awful tie cradled in his hands.

Yuuri had given it as an exchange for Victor’s phone number scrawled across the inside of his arm. He can still feel the heat of Yuuri’s skin.

_________________

Yuuri never calls.

_________________

The second time Victor meets Yuuri, it’s a sweltering summer afternoon. The air conditioning is broken. Victor’s fringe is plastered to his forehead. He can make a lot of things work, but this is undeniably not a good look.

“Your huge forehead’s reflecting so much light you could use it for a photoshoot,” Yuri says, mopping his forehead with a bar rag that needed to be washed three days ago.

“You wound me, Yuri,” Victor says, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. That should hide the glare.

(He hopes.)

“Savor the moment, you’ve only got so long before your cue-ball headed future becomes the present.”

“Um…” a soft voice says from the entryway.

“Get out,” Yuri snarls, “we’re closed.”

The figure, halo-ed by the glare of the sun through the doorway, takes a few hesitant steps further into the bar. The stranger blinks as his eyes adjust from the harsh glare of daylight to the dim atmospheric glow inside _Aria_. Victor finally gets a clear look at him and, well, he's glad they keep a defibrillator under the bar because he's sure his heart just stopped. It’s him. Victor wasn’t sure he’d ever see him again.

“Oy, idiot, I said we’re closed.”

Yuuri stands frozen, fingers crinkling the sides of the plastic bag he’s clutching to his chest.

“Oh, I…I’m not here to drink.” He holds up the bag waving it in front of him like a white flag, “my family owns a restaurant a few blocks over and, uh, my mom sent me over with food as a ‘welcome to the neighborhood,’ gift.”

Victor, roused from catatonia by Yuri’s abrasive greeting, pushes past his cousin. “Oh that’s so thoughtful!” The most delicious smell to ever grace his nose wafts from the bag.

A mouthwatering man with a mouthwatering meal. This is definitely making the Top 5 on Victor’s “Best Days Of My Life” list.

Yuuri shuffles his feet. He’s looking at a spot directly over Victor’s shoulder as though he can’t bear to meet his eyes. “I’m Yuuri,” he says, biting his lower lip.

Victor chuckles, “that heathen is also named Yuri.”

“There can only be one,” Yuri hisses.

Yuuri flinches, eyes darting between Yuri and the floor. He deposits the food on a table, mutters “good-bye,” and exits, as though pursued by a bear.

“I hate to see him leave, but I love to watch him go,” Victor sighs.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m eating your dinner.”

_________________

Yuuri comes into _Aria_ on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and sometimes Sundays.

At first he, hides in a corner of the bar, sipping his drink of choice (beer on Tuesdays and Thursdays, champagne on Saturdays, and whiskey on Sundays).

For the first two weeks they fall into a pattern: Victor waves at him, rushes over to his table, holds a one sided conversation between two people, and then stares at him from the bar for the rest of the night until Yuuri leaves— tossing Victor a hesitant wave as he walks out the door.

Then he turns to Yuri to whine some variation of “why doesn’t he talk to me?”

Yuri’s long since run out of retorts and moved onto expanding his repertoire of growls and grunts.

Victor vague tweets about him on his personal account (well, once on _Aria_ ’s but they’re Never Speaking about that), though 99.9% of his followers know exactly who he’s talking about.

_________________

 **@therealviknik** the moment you memorize someone’s schedule and make sure their table is open every time they come in

_July 28 2016_

**@therealviknik** i wish i was that bead of sweat

_July 30 2016_

**@therealviknik** how well do you have to know someone to name a drink after them?

_August 3 2016_

**@therealviknik** for that matter, do you tell them before or after you name the drink?

_August 3 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @therealviknik** you are disgusting

_August 3 2016_

**@therealviknik @myknifeshoes** I love you too  <33333

_August 3 2016_

**@therealviknik** how do you ask someone for their number when you’ve already known them for three months?

_August 4 2016_

**@gia-come-etti @therealviknik** “can I have your number”

_August 4 2016_

**@mila-babe-cheva @gia-come-etti @therealviknik** SHOTS FIRED _pew pew pew_

_August 4 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @mila-babe-cheva @gia-come-etti @therealviknik** BLOCKED

_August 4 2016_

_________________

Two weeks, and six days into their re-acquaintanceship—Yuuri brings a friend to the bar.

Victor seethes, quiet rage hovering over him like expensive cologne gone rancid.

Yuri can feel the frustration rolling off of Victor in waves. Victor’s anger is like a baited fish-hook; Yuri sets down the glass he was drying.

“What did the pig do now?”

Victor just glares at Yuuri’s table. Yuuri, who’s looked up to wave at Victor, following the steps of their choreographed dance, flinches at the fury in his eyes, and turns to his companion—shielding most of his body from Victor.

“Nice going asshole.” Yuri slides out from behind the bar and stalking over to Yuuri’s table. Victor strains to hear their conversation, but it’s a bar. He might as well be trying to get front row tickets to a Beyonce concert.

To his surprise, Yuuri laughs. Yuuri’s friend (boyfriend?) winks at Yuri, then points at Victor, who, to his own eternal horror, _ducks_ under the counter and emerges with another pile of receipts, trying to paint the image that’s what he’d meant to do all along. He isn’t _Kegs and Conversations’_ most eligible bachelor five years running for nothing. He’s going over there.

Was the room this big yesterday? Yuuri’s still not looking at him. But his (boy?)friend is and he shoots Victor a big wink. What?

Yuuri sees him approaching, shoots a panicked look left and right, squeaks out “bathroom,” and then bolts from the table.

“Smooth.” Yuri doesn’t even bother fighting his laugh.

Yuuri’s friend stands up and extends a hand to Victor. It’s a strangely formal greeting for a bar, but after the past twenty minutes, Victor doesn’t think before reaching out to shake hands.

“Phichit Chulanont,” he says, smile wide, eyes speculative.

“Victor Nikiforov.”

“I know,” Phichit says. Well.

“I’m not dating Yuuri. You’re pretty obvious.” Phichit pauses then, “well, obvious to everyone but Yuuri.”

(That’s enlightening.)

“Seriously, it’s like you have a fucking neon sign above your head that says ‘date me Yuuri.” Ah, Yuri’s arrived with the drinks.

“You should sit with us!” Phichit says, pushing Victor into the chair next to Yuuri’s.

“Sit with them,” Yuri glares, before stomping back to the bar. Yuuri passes him on his way back to to the table, Yuri shoots him A Look. Phichit looks at Victor then at Yuuri, and then back again.

Twenty minutes, 10 shots of vodka, and a rousing group rendition of Beyonce’s "Single Ladies" later, Victor’s resolved to send Chris a huge basket of sex toys as thanks for insisting _Aria_ install a pole.

_________________

It’s Saturday. When Yuuri’d slumped into the bar that evening, Victor had rung the ridiculous gong he insist on keeping behind the bar, signaling the start of Happy Hour for all of _Aria_ ’s customers.

(Victor calls every time Yuuri's there Happy Hour.)

“How much is my tab?” Yuuri asks, a little wobbly, but surprising steady after three whiskey sours, two aviations, and a gin and tonic.

Yuri opens his mouth to answer but Victor elbows him out of the way before he can make a sound.

“It’s on the house!”

Yuuri’s brow furrows, “are you sure?”

“More than I’ve ever been of anything.”

“You know your Happy Hour schedule changes a lot,” he’d said, fingers tapping against the side of the last finger of his drink.

“That’s because Victor—“

“Loves surprises!” Victor breaks into the conversation before shooting Yuri a look he _knows_ Yuri will parse as If You Say Something I Swear To God I’ll Give Your Tips to Mila.

Yuuri finishes his drink, slides a five into the tip jar, and gives Victor a half wave as he turns to go, shuffling between his feet as though he is sure if he’s actually ready to leave.

(But he does leave.)

“You’re an idiot,” Yuri doesn't bother looking up from counting his tips.

“I prefer to think of myself as an innovative business man—we’re the only bar in the city who does this.”

“That’s because this isn’t how happy hour works, Victor!”

“Well, It's the happiest hour of _my_ day.”

“You giving him hundreds of dollars of free drinks every week isn't a sustainable business model. I don’t need an MBA to figure that out.”

“He pays his tab in pole dancing, Yuri,” Victor sniffs, busying himself by pretending to re-arrange the glasses on the shelf behind them.

“Victor, I swear to god, you’re basically a dog. Not only are you shedding hair on the daily but Katsuki comes in and your tail is literally wagging,” Yuri says.

“I don’t think that’s his tail, Yuri,” Chris smirks, returning to the bar with a tray of empty glasses.

“You’re both fired.”

Chris and Yuri both ignore him.

_________________

It’s a Wednesday when Victor walks into _Holy Grounds_ —running on less than two hours of sleep— and someone is sitting at his usual table. It’s Yuuri.

He’s _supposed_ to run over to _Holy Grounds_ , grab four incredibly specific coffee orders, and open the bar in less than ten minutes—but as is the pattern, all of his sense (“all of what sense?” Yuri will snarl later) dives right into a vat of eighteen year old whiskey, proceeds to get rip-roaring drunk, and suppresses any thought that he belongs anywhere but here as soon as he sees Yuuri's face.

Instead, Victor doesn’t even bother ordering a drink before sliding into the chair across from Yuuri—who jumps at suddenly sensing motion just within his peripheral vision.

“Hi Yuuri!” Victor flashes Yuuri his best smile before peering at the pile of papers strewn across across the table.

“Hi Victor,” Yuuri shuffles the papers around into some parody of order. “It’s a little weird seeing you out of the bar.”

“Weird,” Victor pouts, “I was hoping for a more positive adjective than that.”

“It’s been a long day, I’m all out of better adjectives.” Yuuri’s still fiddling with his papers.

“I’m hurt.”

Yuuri smiles and Victor swears his heart is actually yelling “DID YOU SEE THAT” at him. Yes. Yes he did.

“I’m sure you’ll live.”

“You have more faith in my virility than the other Yuri.”

“I have more faith in your everything than the other Yuri.”

“So you do like me!”

“It’s a low bar to jump.”

“Yuuuuuuuri.”

It turns out that Yuuri’s there to study for his fast approaching midterms. This time next year, he’ll have an MBA.

Victor shows Yuuri all six hundred and ninety four pictures of Makkachin. Yuuri never looks anything other than enthralled.

(How can one man be so perfect.)

Victor ignores the fifty text messages, thirty four phone calls, and sixteen angry voicemails from the other Yuri. He has far more important places to be than work today.

(When the Other Yuri asks why he was late, Victor tells him to take it up with fate.)

_________________

“Are you sure you’re not Russian?” Victor asks Yuuri, post-coffee, in media res of Yuuri getting utterly smashed to drink away his midterm troubles.

Yuuri’s pounding back shots of vodka like they’re nothing. Between the two of them, they’ve killed and entire bottle and are well into the second. Victor’s words have started slurring together, links on a chain with barely a space between them.

Across the table, Yuuri’s cheeks are a rose in full bloom, but his hands are surprisingly steady, his enunciation spring water clear. He raises an eyebrow, “I think I’d know if I was Russian, Victor,” he leans forward, chin cupped in his right palm, “you’d probably know too. We wouldn’t be having this conversation in English."

“I’ve…never seen anyone drink like you,” Victor babbles, desperately holding back all the other ways Yuuri’s existence in his life is an utter singularity.

“You’ve never met my dad then, I’m the watered down version,” Yuuri laughs, eyes bright, fingers drumming against his cheek, “the amazake to his sake."

“I can’t imagine you’re a watered down anything."

Yuuri flush grows, “trust me, if you met him, you’d agree."

“Asking me to meet your parents, Yuuri? How forward! I suppose I’m up to the challenge,” Victor says, shooting Yuuri a wink.

Yuuri just laughs, the alcohol an acid dissolving his inhibitions, “you’d have already met them if you’d come to the restaurant. This is a one-sided arrangement at the moment. You better step up your game, Nikiforov."

“You know I can never resist a challenge,” Victor purrs, though the effect is ruined— (only slightly, Victor lies to himself)— by a huge hiccup halfway through.

“Even if you know you’re going to lose?” Yuuri grins.

“You’ve got so little faith in me, Yuuri. I’m wounded beyond repair,” Victor pouts, giving Yuuri his best impression of Makkachin.

“What a shame, I was hoping you’d let me take you apart and put you back together.”

Victor chokes and a bit of vodka squirts out of his nose. He hasn’t thought this through at all.

Things only get worse from there, because Yuuri takes this as the starting gun to escalate their drinking contest. He waves sloppily at the bar, “Yuri! Yuri! Come here and help us get wasted!”

Yuri stomps over to their table, one hand grasping a bottle of vodka, the other pinching two more shot glasses between his thumb and index fingers. He slams them down on the table so hard Victor’s afraid they’ll splinter. As he turns to leave, Yuuri catches the edge of his sleeve and tugs him back towards the table.

“Come on Yuri! Drink with us!” he beams. Fuck, Victor needs sunglasses for Yuuri’s smile.

“Can’t. Some of us,” he glares at Victor, “actually have to do their jobs!”

“But Yuri,” he whines, “Union rules guarantee me a break!”

“You’re not part of any union! You’re just an asshole,”. Yuri flips him off before fleeing back to the bar.

“Yuri’s wrong you know,” Yuuri says, reaching across the table to grasp Victor’s hand.

“Hmm?” Victor’s too distracted by the shape of Yuuri’s lips to really pay attention to what he’s saying.

“You’re not an asshole,” Yuuri licks a stray drop of vodka off of his lips. Victor follows his tongue with his eyes.

“How do you know that?”

Yuuri’s moved on to drawing little circles on the back of Victor’s hand with his thumb. Victor fights a shiver and loses, “You’re always so nice to me. Always say ‘hi’. Ask me how I am. S’not a thing assholes do.”

“What if I told you I’ve got selfish motivations,” Victor can’t control his tongue. Can’t control his hands when the other reaches out across the table so that Yuuri’s holding both.

In a night of miscalculation— (drinking thresholds, Yuuri’s ability to be seductive, his own ability to keep cool in the face of sheer beauty)—Victor makes one more. Liquor’s never been great for his depth perception, and the latter gets long awaited revenge on the former when he knocks over the half empty bottle of vodka— right into Yuuri’s lap.

Yuuri looks down in shock, eyes watering.

“Yuuri I’m so sorry!” Victor cries, leaping up from his chair so fast that it clatters to the floor.

Yuuri’s gaze remains locked on his thighs. A distant part of Victor’s mind doesn’t blame him— he can’t keep his eyes off of Yuuri’s thighs either.

“Victor how could you!” Yuuri sobs, casting a mournful look at his pants.

“It was an accident, I swear! Let me take you out to dinner! I’ll get you new pants, I’ll—"

“That poor vodka never got to live its best life.” Yuuri shakes his head, a single tear running down his cheek.

Victor’s skin is clear, his crops are flourishing and he has no idea how he could ever love this man more.

(Victor also gets an all too brief audience with Yuuri’s thighs as he tries to help Yuuri dry his pants. He stands by his earlier assessment— absolutely a lethal weapon.)

Before Victor knows it, Yuuri’s putting on a show, the thighs to end all thighs on full, glorious, display. About once a week—usually on Saturdays—Yuuri gets drunk enough to wind his body around the pole in the center of _Aria_ and provide the patrons with free entertainment.

(And also erections that would probably be embarrassing if Yuuri’s appeal weren’t so universal.)

( _Aria_ ’s patrons have an unspoken pact—don’t tell Yuuri about his performances. Why mess with a good thing?)

_________________

“Which way is your apartment,” Victor’s nowhere near sober, but he’s three miles closer to sobriety than Yuuri is. It’s amazing he’d been able to dance with a blood alcohol content that high.

“I think….” Yuuri looks around the dark street, squinting at a lamp as though it holds answers to all of the questions in the universe.

(Victor wants Yuuri to look at _him_ like that. He’s never been so jealous of an inanimate object.)

“It’s that way.” Yuuri frowns, “no, that way,” he says, pointing the opposite direction.

“Actually it’s that way,” Victor says, pointing to the windows just above the bar.

“I may be drunk, but I _know_ that’s not my apartment.”

“No, it’s mine. I have no idea where you live and I’m not letting you walk home like this.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to protest but Victor marches on, “besides, Makkachin’s been dying to meet you.”

Yuuri, pauses, nods, then follows Victor up the stairs.

(Dogs really are man’s best friend.)

Makkachin tackles Yuuri as soon as Victor opens the door.

(Victor _might_ have been playing some videos of Yuuri’s pole dancing routines while Makkachin sat in his lap.)

In no time Yuuri’s collapsed onto the couch, Makkachin snuggled against his side.

(Victor takes back what he said about Makkachin being his best friend, this is an utter betrayal.)

He shuffles off to his bathroom to get ready for bed, but not before making the the fatal mistake of posting Yuuri’s routine to _Aria’_ s Instagram.

_________________

Yuuri doesn’t come in on Sunday, Tuesday, or Thursday either.

Victor’s laying across the bar after close. He’s got a half full tumbler of scotch sloshing around in his left hand, his right is splayed across his forehead, and his legs are dangling on either side of the bar.

“Get the fuck off of there. We’ve got a _health code_ regulations, asshole.”

“Yuri, my life is over.”

“Unfortunately for me, it’s not.”

Victor ignores him, “it’s been over a week! Where is he?”

“Maybe you should just quit moaning and text him.” Yuri smiles—sharp, feral. “Oh right, I forgot, _you don’t have his number_.”

“I was waiting for him to send me a sign Yuri! It was supposed to be romantic!”

“What, were you waiting for him to send you a sign through interpretive dance? That he’d send a message only you would understand from reading the language of his body?” Yuri taps a finger against his lips and winks—an impeccable impression. Victor remains oblivious.

“So poetic! And yes. I tried giving him my number, and that clearly didn’t work. So it’s time to resort to other methods.”

“So step two in your grand seduction plan—after “give him your phone number”—is to communicate through dance? God, you’re an even bigger idiot that I thought.”

Yuri’s waving a glass through the air. Victor would worry that he’d break it if he could find the energy to care.

“I don’t know how that’s possible, but there it is. Victor Nikiforov, continually setting new records on the idiocy scale. I should submit you to a student sociology experiment. Maybe you’d make the cover of something other than _Kegs and Conversations_.”

“Why are my Yuris so mean to me,” Victor moans, splashing two fingers of 20 year old scotch onto the floor.

“Maybe you deserve it.”

“So cruel.”

“Maybe. But am I the crueler Yuri?”

“Like a crueller? A donut?”

“No, ugh,” Yuri hisses, “just, he’s just left you hanging. Again. And now you’re…pining, _again_.” Yuri spits the word like it’s poison. He sighs and starts recording. If he has to suffer through this he’s damn well going to post it to Instagram.

Victor’s still stuck on donuts. “Ich bin ein Berliner! Why doesn’t Yuuri love me? I mean… look at me! And! I know German! I’m clearly a catch, _Kegs and Conversations_ said so.” Victor lifts his head up off the bar, looking around at an invisible audience, asking for their agreement.

Yuri stops the recording on his phone, and fires off a quick text to Otabek with the video attached.

**Otabae <3**

_Do you see what I have to deal with?_

_I feel bad for that scotch._

_Sure, pity the booze, not your boyfriend._

_You wouldn't have me any other way._

_________________

 **@therealviknik** google search history: how to tell when your crush is avoiding you

_August 17 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @therealviknik** you didn’t need to waste time on a google search. he’s avoiding you.

_August 17 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @therealviknik** also are you 80? Did you forget twitter isn’t google?

_August 17 2016_

**@evilwitch @therealviknik @myknifeshoes** he could just be busy!

_August 17 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @therealviknik @evilwitch** are you really going to listen to the guy with “evilwitch” as his twitter handle?

_August 17 2016_

**@mila-babe-cheva @myknifeshoes @therealviknik @evilwitch** says the guy who can’t even refer to skates by their proper name

_August 17 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @mila-babe-cheva** what are skates? You mean knife shoes?

_August 17 2016_

**@mila-babe-cheva @myknifeshoes** don’t make me bring otabek into this

_August 17 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @mila-babe-cheva** DM. Now.

_August 17 2016_

**@mila-babe-cheva @myknifeshoes** kitten’s getting angry.

_August 17 2016_

**@myknifeshoes @mila-babe-cheva** see u in my DMs hag

_August 17 2016_

**@therealviknik** two weeks and counting

_August 17 2016_

**@mila-babe-cheva @myknifeshoes @evilwitch** **@gia-come-etti** I’ll bring the intervention banner, you bring the vodka

_August 17 2016_

**@therealviknik @mila-babe-cheva @myknifeshoes @evilwitch @gia-come-etti** don’t get the cheap stuff. i’ll Know. leave the banner at home

_August 17 2016_

**@gia-come-etti @therealviknik** your selective capitalization has reached new heights

_August 17 2016_

_________________

Two weeks in and Yuri can't stand it anymore. Victors gone from moping, to scheming, to snapping, to outright aggression. Their regulars still come in (mostly so they can get Victor to drink against them) but newcomers back out immediately. It's hitting Yuri right in the tips. And you never go for a man right in the tips.

“I’m ending this misery,” he says to Mila.

“I’ll handle the bar.”

“Vitya, get out here,” Mila yells towards the backroom. Victor’s head is pillowed on a sea of paperwork. Some of the ink’s transferred to his cheek.

Yuri tosses the cash register keys to Mila, snags Victor by the arm, and outright drags him through the door.

Fuck this, they’re going to Yu-Topia.

(“Even the place he works sounds like heaven,” Victor whines, stumbling after Yuri.)

_________________

Victor’s never been to Yu-Topia. Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s stood on the street corner opposite the restaurant— bathed the warm of a street-light, the glow haloed around his feet— approximately seventeen times.

He knows exactly where it is, and Yuri does too, on account of all the times he’s found Victor languishing on that very corner and had to pull him back to the bar. It’s like someone’s running the tape backwards, because this time, Yuri’s dragging him _towards_ Yu-topia. Ever since the phone number incident, Victor’s been trying to make Yuuri come to him.

This is not part of The Plan. The Plan includes far more pole dancing.

“Yuri, is this really necessary—“

“In the time you’ve been pining, I’ve been dating Otabek for two and half months.”

Victor flushes, “that doesn’t count, he asked you out first”.

“And if you’d actually asked Katsuki out while he’s sober rather than hinting at it while he’s dead drunk, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

Victor sniffs, “I will not dignify that with a response.”

Yuri sighs, clenching the fist not already wrapped around Victor’s arm. His fingernails carve crescents into his palm. “Look. Unless you’re suddenly going to turn into a functional human being— not that anyone could mistake you for one in the first place— we’re going in there, and you’re going to talk to Katsuki. Depending on how _that_ inevitable clusterfuck goes, I’ll either send you home to sulk, or you’ll bring the pig back to the bar. But I’m not letting shit stand the way it is now. It’s for my own good.”

Victor pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, “I’m so touched, Yura. You really care about me.”

“Say another word and I’m shoving you down a storm drain.”

_________________

Yu-Topia is warm and bright, a sea of reds and yellows. Low lacquered cherry wood tables, thin paper screens shielding the private rooms towards the back, the slight woody smell of the tatami mats, and the utterly consuming, mouthwatering scene of Hiroko Katsuki’s katsudon.

Phichit is sitting at the bar —

(“they have a bar?” Victor hisses, “but he still comes to _Aria_?”

“Ugh, you’re perfect for each other. You’re both incomparable idiots.”

“Aww, you called me incomparable,” Victor pinches, Yuri’s cheek, just pulling his and away before Yuri can bite him.)

— and raises his glass in salute once he sees Victor and Yuri.

“I never thought I’d see the day! You finally made it over here. It’s a whole new standard for taking it slow.”

“I have no id—“ Phichit gives Victor A Look, “okay I probably should’ve come over a month ago.”

“Yes, you should have,” Phichit’s eyes light up with sadistic glee, “then you could have been…coming… a month ago.” He winks.

“Disgusting,” Yuri hisses.

Victor flushes, and pretends his phone is buzzing in his pocket.

A voice floats out from the room behind the bar, “Phichit, who are you talking—oh,” Yuuri says, frozen with a bag of rock salt cradled in his hands.

“Yuuri!” Phichit and Victor chorus—Phichit’s tone a little sinister, Victor a very poorly concealed overjoyed.

Yuuri shuffles his feet, clutching the bag of rock salt like a life raft, “Yuri. Victor. Why are you here?”

Victor’s face falls, and Yuri sees the moment Victor’s “service industry” mask snaps into place.

“Just in the mood for some katsudon,” he says, all forced nonchalance, “and to take stock of competition I didn’t know we had." He makes a vague gesture toward the bar.

Yuuri flushes, “ah…yes. We just got a liquor license. I’ve had to stay later because of the extra business.”

“Oh really?” Victor’s doing his best to force eye contact, “no poles to dance on though. You’ve brought _Aria_ a lot of business.”

Yuuri pales, “ah, no I guess not.” He’s gripping the bag of rock salt so hard that he’s started to tear the seams. A little dribbles onto the floor.

“onay alkingtay aboutway ethay olepay ancingday ouyay idiotway,” Yuri says, slicing a finger across the front of his throat.

“Yuuri can I talk to you,” Phichit asks, steering Yuuri back behind the bar before he has a chance to answer.

Yuri turns towards Victor, furious, “I’d ask what the hell is wrong with you but we don’t have time for a list the length of War and Peace.”

“I don’t understand,” Victor whispers, eyes fixed to the door Yuuri and Phichit disappeared through.

“He’s embarrassed, moron.”

“I don’t understand,” Victor says, eyebrows drawing together.

“Of course you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t say half the shit that comes out of your mouth.”

“But he’s so talented! It was a compliment.”

“Yeah, well, no one’s more talented than you at shoving their foot in their mouth. Did you ever think maybe that dumb video is why he’s been avoiding you?”

From the look on his face, it’s clear Victor hadn’t.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing past Yuri to run behind the bar.

“Employees only!” A boy with blonde hair with a red streak yells. Victor ignores him, hurtling into the stock room where Yuuri’s standing, still clutching the bag of rock salt, Phichit’s arm around his shoulder.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Phichit says, sliding out of the room so fast he may as well be wearing a jetpack.

“Victor, my _parents_ saw that video,” Yuuri hisses through the palms covering his face.

Victor bites his lip, “I’m sorry Yuuri. I just…I wanted you to see yourself the way that I do.”

“Like an embarrassing idiot?”

“Not an idiot. And not embarrassing,”

Yuuri’s not listening, “I didn’t want you to see my shortcomings, and then you just went and showed them to the whole world!”

Victor starts talking before Yuuri can run away again, “Yuuri, I’m sorry. You were amazing, I’ve been thinking about you since Shaken Not Stirred three months ago.”

Yuuri pales. “What do you mean? We didn’t even talk at SNS.”

“You…you don’t remember?” Victor’s phone is sweaty in his palm.

“Failing miserably?”

“Dancing with me at 'Wine and Dine and Wine Some More.'”

“Oh god,” Yuuri moans, sitting down on a crates of onions, finally putting down the bag of salt. “This just keeps getting worse.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” Victor creeps closer.

Yuuri’s head snaps up, “I’m not allowed to be embarrassed of my own actions?”

“Yuuri, that was the best night of my life.”

“What?” Yuuri whispers.

Victor plows forward, if he doesn’t say this now, he’d not sure Yuuri will ever give him another chance, “I looked at the pictures from that night every day for the past three months.”

“There are _pictures!?!_ ” Yuuri shrieks.

“Do you want to see them?”

“No!”

Victor sidles closer and pulls up his favorite, the one of them dancing together, Victor dipped back towards the floor, cradled in Yuuri’s arms.

Yuuri’s face goes slack in surprise, “we look so happy.”

“I told you. Best night of my life.” Victor sits down on the crate next to Yuuri. “You could make this one better though.”

Yuuri bites his lips and fiddles with his cuticles. Victor takes that as his cue to continue, “You could agree to go on a date with me.”

“I….”

“You can have time to think about it. I sort of...sprung a lot on you at once.”

Yuuri snorts. Victor takes that as a good sign.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Victor raises himself from the box. He doesn’t want to leave, but no matter what the Other Yuri says, he has enough tact to know he should let Yuuri sort out his thoughts without the pressure of Victor’s presence.

“I’ll see you soon?” God, Victor hopes he will.

Yuuri doesn’t meet his eyes, but he nods.

Good enough.

_________________

“Hi,” a soft, very very familiar voice calls across the bar.

“Yuuri!” Victor’s whole face lights up and he flies across the bar to wrap Yuuri in a hug.

Yuuri’s stiff at first, but he melts into the embrace and rests his head on Victor’s shoulder, “Victor.”

It’s been three days since their conversation—confrontation?—and Victor had started to lose hope.

“Does this mean…”

“Yes,” Yuuri whispers, so quietly that for a second Victor’s not sure he heard it.

(Oh but he did.)

“Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri, I’m so happy!“

“I wasn’t sure if you’d changed your mind,” Yuuri steps back from the hug and ruffles the hair at the back of his head.

“Never. What made you decide now?”

“Ah well, Phichit said my usual tactic is to repress and ignore. And then he bet me that I wouldn’t be able to come over here and talk to you.”

Victor’s buying Phichit sixty hamsters.

“Oh, and what do you win? Besides me?”

Yuuri pulls back from the hug to whack Victor on the shoulder, “he’s paying for 3 months of my Steam subscription. You also forfeit your parental rights to Makkachin.”

“Can I bargain for shared visitation?”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that Makkachin is my dog.”

Yuuri smiles, a small slip of a thing, but utterly real, “I’ll allow it. But only because I missed you.”

(Victor immediately re-arranges the order of his list of “The Best Days of Victor Nikiforov’s Life,” because this is a clear number one.)

_________________ 

(At least until their wedding.)

**Author's Note:**

> +a huge thank you to [meg <3 ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/pseuds/FullmetalChords) for doing a last minute read through of this fic and helping me make it better. you're the absolute best 
> 
> +i'm here on [tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com) for fic previews and updates if you're into that sort of thing ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> +thank you for reading!


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